quest/www/rss.xml

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    <atom:link href="https://tilde.town/~dozens/quest/rss.xml" rel="self" type="application/rss+xml" />
    <title>BASEMENT QWEST</title>
    <link>https://tilde.town/~dozens/quest/rss.xml</link>
    <description>Friends having ADVENTURES! Huzzah!</description>
    <item>
      <title>24</title>
      <author>dozens@tilde.team (dozens)</author>
      <guid isPermaLink="false">24 - Sat, 22 Oct 2022 13:43:40
-0600</guid>
      <pubDate>Sat, 22 Oct 2022 13:43:40 -0600</pubDate>
      <description>
        <![CDATA[
          <h3 id="00024">00024</h3>
          <blockquote>
          <p><strong>Corraidhin</strong><br />
          Well I’ll be! You can turn yourself into a dagger. And I did
          say we could stab blavin if you could do that, it’s much more
          stealthy this way. But let me posit this, is the act of
          stabbing a hobbit unprovoked not itself evil? Or perhaps more
          convincingly, would it not be better to use the hobbit for
          whatever information he has so as to lead to this mysterious
          benefactor, who most assuredly must be evil.</p>
          <p>Someone who would send out myriads of teams to pillage and
          plunder cultural artifacts is truly evil, that must be our
          target.</p>
          <p>Now this isn’t to say that we won’t stab him. I’m convinced
          that’s probably a good idea in the long run, but we know
          nothing of the true evil that motivates him! We would kill him
          just to lose track of the true evil we must smite!</p>
          <p><strong>Y’aml</strong><br />
          But YOU said if I could turn into a dagger we could STAB him.
          HE’S EVIL. YOU said so! Not keeping your promises IS one step
          away from PURE evil! Make a choice Hardy Bear! Stab the evil
          hobbit, or stab the inkling, or stab SOMETHING evil this
          minute!</p>
          <p><strong>Corraidhin</strong><br />
          I most certainly cannot abide with stabbing Inky, it’s
          entirely off the table. And in a city like this there aren’t
          any evil things that just jump out for the stabbing.</p>
          <p>(Corraidhin tries to silently control Y’aml during the
          discussion. However in so doing the party has fallen silent,
          aghast even)</p>
          <p>Corraidhin stands, Y’aml held in hand, red gem eye gleaming
          a wicked joyful grin as it’s raised high, poised to strike.
          The party around him is silent, and Blavin stares up in shock.
          The tavern around them has died down and you can hear the
          bustle of the proprietor calling for his strong men to deal
          with this ruckus.</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>The table—and all of Lucy’s Basement within earshot—sits in
          tense, uneasy quiet at Corraidhin’s one-sided conversation
          with the Sword of Yam’L. Blavin giggles nervously and sips his
          martini, willfully forcing himself right up to the very last
          moment to believe that it is all some sort of jest.</p>
          <p>But then the sysorcerer stands and raises the blood crazed
          dagger over his shoulder, and Blavin squeals and writhes in
          his chair. Lucy’s bouncers scramble forward from the corners
          of the room to intercept.</p>
          <blockquote>
          <p><strong>Y’aml</strong><br />
          We STAB Hardy Bear! We STAB NOW!!</p>
          <p>Against Corraidhin’s control, as though he’s in a trance,
          the dagger comes down. A swift stabbing motion strqight to the
          neck, as he lunges across the table at Blavin knocking the map
          and his martini to the side.</p>
          </blockquote>
          <!--
          Bloodlust 3 to Stabble Stabble
          1 2 4: Partial Success
          //-->
          <p>Corraidhin once again feels the same peculiar quality of
          the blade, that sensation of a hollow core with a heavy liquid
          sloshing inside. Held aloft, the weight of it feels
          concentrated at the grip, the blade light as a feather.</p>
          <p>He stabs down—Yam’L cries out in wordless glee—and the
          weight flows into the tip of the blade, the blade itself now
          drawing Corraidhin’s hand downward in a rising crescendo of
          stabbitude.</p>
          <!--
          Do Anything 1 to Resist Bloodlust
          3: Partial Success
          //-->
          <p>Blavin flinches at the last second, and instead of burying
          itself in his throat, the blade plunges into his shoulder and
          pins him to the back of the chair. A red mist fills the eye
          and threatens to cloud it over entirely. It rolls back in
          ecstasy as it drinks deeply. It sings out, “MORE! MORE! MORE!”
          and Corraidhin feels the tides of madness rising inside of
          him, threatening to wash over him wholly, to pull him under
          and carry him away on thundering waves of bloodlust.</p>
          <p>Corraidhin struggles to pull the blade from the chair back.
          Blavin whimpers and mewls as he yanks on it, and clutches his
          wound and, incredibly, takes a large gulp of his drink.</p>
          <p>The sysorcerer still has the wherewithal and the presence
          of mind to be aware of his surroundings. He is not yet so
          overcome by the bloodlust. He sees his companions, his fellow
          residents of the Milk Market, seated around the table. And he
          sees the musclebound bouncers now nearly within reach.</p>
          <p>Finally he draws the dagger. Blavin sinks in his seat and
          slides to the floor with his drink, blabbering incoherently,
          and starts to slither away.</p>
          <p>WHAT DO YOU DO</p>
          <p><a
          href="https://framalistes.org/sympa/arc/tildepals/2022-10/msg00010.html">www</a></p>
        ]]>
      </description>
    </item>
    <item>
      <title>21</title>
      <author>dozens@tilde.team (dozens)</author>
      <guid isPermaLink="false">21 - Wed, 05 Oct 2022 07:21:55
-0600</guid>
      <pubDate>Wed, 05 Oct 2022 07:21:55 -0600</pubDate>
      <description>
        <![CDATA[
          <h3 id="00021">00021</h3>
          <p>INTERLUDE</p>
          <blockquote>
          <p>A glorious victory!</p>
          <p>In the interim time Corraidhin studies the sword of Y’aml,
          and correctly deduces that he needs to remove the sticky bit
          to be able to sheath the thing.</p>
          <p>sudo chmod -t sword_of_y'aml</p>
          <p>The rest of the interim is spent studying arcane lore
          surrounding the Ginnarak Crystals and their purpose. He also
          strongly urges the party that we should consider very carefuly
          how we need to proceed with the crystal. It’s obvious people
          don’t want these things getting out, so we should ensure that
          Blavin has good intentions, or at least leaves us out of
          whatever potential evil could occur.</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>Corraidhin prepares the incantation and, after removing the
          sticky bit, is able pry his stiff fingers from the grip.</p>
          <p>You sheathe the blade, but its voice continues to ring
          clearly in your head as it prattles on, seeing evil and
          villainy everywhere and encouraging you to stab, stab,
          stab.</p>
          <p>Your sysorcerous studies, confirmed by the eager and
          forthright sword, suggest that the blade will be able to rest
          for a while once it tastes blood.</p>
          <p>Your former mentor and rival sysorceror Eccentric Kevin
          calls on you one day under the pretense of showing you the
          latest draft of KDL (pronounced “cuddle”), their own “Kevin’s
          Document Language”, an alternative syntax for incantations and
          personal pet project of theirs that has thus far failed, much
          to their perpetual consternation, to gain any traction or
          adoption in the wider magic community. They are insufferably
          polite and sinisterly supportive. They complain about how the
          obstinant gnus keep standing in the middle of the road trying
          to block traffic, and they demand to know all about your
          recent exploits and adventures.</p>
          <blockquote>
          <p>Once back in town, Inky had the small glass shard in their
          palm removed by a harried-looking healer, who merely shrugged
          at Inky’s account of the disappearing ink and advised them to
          return if they experienced adverse effects before hurrying off
          to the next patient. A visit to the local stationery shop did
          not yield any answers; the stocky human at the counter shook
          their head apologetically when shown the broken ink bottle.
          However, they did suggest asking at one of the larger shops in
          the city.</p>
          <p>To celebrate their first successful quest, Inky made
          torties[1] for their party with flour ground from some of the
          large corn kernels at the dig site, topped with a sweet nutty
          squash spread. Babbleberry tea was served from their newly
          acquired jade tea set, now patched with what Inky had been
          assured was an unbreakable seal[2] by a merchant with a toothy
          grin in one of Vay’Nullar’s notorious back alleys.</p>
          <p>Master Corraidhín’s cautionary words of wisdom still echo
          in Inky’s head, though they were secretly tickled by the idea
          of the crystal being actually a rare and previously unknown
          species of melon with very potent magical properties. The very
          thought of melons was making Inky a bit thirsty. Let the
          warrior and wizard worry about all the potential evils of the
          world — it’s time for a dash to the market for some beatfruit
          juice!</p>
          <hr />
          <p>[1] Also known as torte-teas, as in “Torte-tea, yas?”,
          which was how their previous ink maestro used to greet
          customers entering the brewery. Flat little tea cakes with
          sugar or spice (or both, which vary by region) and sometimes
          eaten in a loose wrap. Some humans called them “crabs” for
          some reason which baffled Inky, since the torties had no
          pincers … at least none that they could see anyway.</p>
          <p>[2] The seal attached to the bottom of the teapot and each
          cup had a glyph of an unknown object between two hands.</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>The healer removes a small glass bead from Inky’s palm. It
          is worn smooth and round like a marble. If you look closely,
          you can see a small blemish in the center that somewhat
          resembles either a duck or a rabbit depending on how you
          orient it.</p>
          <p>It is captivating to look at and comforting to hold in your
          hand. You fidget with it often. Now and then you suddenly
          notice you have been gazing at it for some minutes without
          realizing it.</p>
          <p>You make your party a delightful meal of torties, serving
          tea from the magically reinforced jade set.</p>
          <p>Cleaning up afterwards, you can’t help but notice the
          patterns of the tea leaves in the bottoms of the jade
          cups.</p>
          <p>YOU FORESEE AN OMEN FOR THE PARTY. WHAT IS IT?</p>
          <p>You dash to the market for beatfruit juice, which you
          easily find. And you find yourself irrationally drawn to the
          produce. The kale, dandelion greens, and beans all look
          especially scrumptious and … plump and juicy?</p>
          <p>An old toothy market attendant sits on a stool by the
          vegetable stand reading the Farmers Almanac. Unsolicited, they
          mention to you that it is only three days until the next full
          moon.</p>
          <blockquote>
          <p>Jarrod has two things in particular he wants to do when
          back in town, with whatever his cut of the gold is. First, he
          wants to go looking for a cheap, run-down building somewhere
          in town and buy the property if he has enough money (perhaps
          negotiating a bit where necessary).</p>
          <p>Second, he wishes to seek arcane counsel from Corraidhín,
          perhaps getting a small invocation applied to one of the
          charms on his arm band. Something in the realm of a
          fascination spell (with an activation word) that can be used
          on occasion to draw attention.</p>
          <p>Jarrod agrees that we should not invite trouble. We shall
          tread cautiously with regards to the crystals.</p>
          <p>Yum, torties!</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>After successfully negotiating the price down a little bit,
          you are able to purchase a run-down building. You are now the
          proud owner and proprietor of the Milk Market building in the
          Wandering Bazzar district of downtown Vay’Nullar.</p>
          <p>The ground level is occupied by longtime district staple
          Enrique’s Empanada Emporium, famous for its signature stuffed
          pastries and its Terrapin Ale, brewed on site by Enrique
          himself, who happens to be a very large humanoid turtle.</p>
          <p>It’s a little seedy and a little divey, but still draws a
          fair amount of foot traffic from shoppers waiting for the
          eponymous, ambulatory bazaar of debatable sentience to wander
          by. Reliably, a small gang of breadpunks can be found
          loitering here and espousing the virtues of social anarchy.
          Enrique allows their presence and on occasion even buys them a
          round of ale.</p>
          <p>The top two levels are unoccupied. Years upon years ago,
          this space once held large vats for storing and preserving
          multibeast milk prior to being distributed. Some enterprising
          individual converted and updated the space some time ago, but
          was never able to find a tenant. In any case, the space is
          yours now to do with what you will.</p>
          <p>With Corraidhin’s assistance, you are able to enchant your
          armband by inscribing it with a cross-like glyph with a
          teardrop-shaped loop in place of the vertical upper bar. You
          now have a FASCINATING BANGLE that can, upon activation,
          compel attention and even potentially inspire people to dance
          about.</p>
          <p>WHAT DO YOU DO</p>
          <p><a
          href="https://framalistes.org/sympa/arc/tildepals/2022-10/msg00001.html">www</a></p>
        ]]>
      </description>
    </item>
    <item>
      <title>27</title>
      <author>dozens@tilde.team (dozens)</author>
      <guid isPermaLink="false">27 - Tue, 25 Oct 2022 14:14:31
-0600</guid>
      <pubDate>Fri, 28 Oct 2022 10:36:42 -0600</pubDate>
      <description>
        <![CDATA[
          <h3 id="00027">00027</h3>
          <blockquote>
          <p>Inky stares down at the package, weighing it on one
          hand.</p>
          <p>It was lighter than it should be given the density of the
          contents within, wrapped in straw and thick brown
          weight-absorbent parcel paper for dry goods. Most of the
          clientele were merchants and cultists from other parts of the
          continent who ordered pallets to be shipped back from the port
          town and sold to select boutique grocers or spilled on altars.
          Inside was a block of congealed synthetic blood shaped like a
          mud brick, the dark crimson almost black under the shop’s dim
          light.</p>
          <p>It was sheer happenstance that Inky had found this
          particular supplier. Having been informed heir boat to the
          shipwreck would not arrive for several hours, the members of
          their merry tea party had wandered off to enjoy the local
          sights while they waited. Inky had inquired about the
          hemogoblins and learned in passing that there was a district
          at the western edge of the town where a smaller group had set
          up warehouses, which would save them a two-day trip deep into
          the Hartlands. The hemogoblins in the district were primarily
          wholesalers, and it had taken some convincing before one of
          the proprietors agreed to sell a block of it, along with
          assurances Inky would purchase exclusively from him next time
          and in larger quantities.</p>
          <p>Thin fingers fiddle with the string before the package was
          set to one side.</p>
          <p>What were they doing?</p>
          <p>If quenching the thirst were so simple, wouldn’t any
          student of magic have already thought of it, let alone an
          experienced sysorceror? In all likelihood he had already known
          the inevitable, but was too polite to refuse Inky’s funny
          concoctions. Maybe deep down, Inky already knew too, but
          didn’t want to say it out loud. That the long feather they
          thought they had seen among the tea leaves was actually a
          dagger. That they hadn’t wanted to admit some problems could
          not be whisked away with some tincture or another. That they
          had failed, again.</p>
          <p>They hadn’t searched enough for better ingredients to go
          into the pudding, hadn’t reacted fast enough after noticing
          the sword had abruptly disappeared, hadn’t thrown the large
          platter of mouldy meat the terrified waitress next to them had
          been holding at Blavin’s head, or something. The sword had
          gotten what it demanded, and Inky couldn’t be angry with it —
          it had never been subtle about what it wanted. Had the blood
          pudding worsened the effects? Potions had never been on Inky’s
          menu. Brewing inks and teas with certain mild effects was
          straightforward enough, but curing chronic ailments was firmly
          in healers’ territory and just as bewildering. While it may be
          true nobody could be held to account for the actions of
          another not in full control of themselves, and hardly those of
          a rogue weapon with a mind of its own, sticking their nose in
          other people’s affairs was the surest way to get into trouble,
          a fact Inky still has difficulty learning after decades of
          wandering the continent.</p>
          <p>Would this substrate even work? Maybe it acted differently
          for cursed objects than coffin sleepers. Having brought it
          back and now aboard the ship, how would they even give it to
          the wizard? Should they wait and made sure Master Corraidhín
          was truly rested and recovered, despite his insistence he was
          more than fine? Would it be an insulting reminder of weakness,
          despite the wizard having proven unusual mental fortitude in
          staving off the screams for blood as long as he had? Was this
          more of the same, adding to what they had (not) done?</p>
          <p>After a long moment, Inky rolls the package with the
          producers’ leaflet haphazardly in an old sailor’s rags still
          reeking of cheap alcohol, and passing by the wizard’s empty
          cabin on the way to the deck, places the messy bundle on the
          floorboards two steps from the door. Let the fates decide this
          one, because Inky’s magic 0 ball sure doesn’t make the best
          life choices.</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>Blavin has arranged transportation to the shipwreck ahead
          of time. All you have to do is head down to the docks and meet
          your contact, Three-Fingered Gerald, at a seedy dive bar named
          Inquire Within Upon Everything.</p>
          <p>Inquire Within is as eclectic and gaudy as the name would
          imply. The bar serves as an extensive and impressive piece of
          living documentation, drawing heavily on the port town’s
          cosmopolitan mixture of culture. Every kind of style, cuisine,
          decor, and beverage can be found here mishmashed together
          irregardless of good taste. Its contents are encyclopedic and
          claustrophobic. And yet it is not without its own peculiar
          brand of overwhelming, garish charm.</p>
          <p>You find Mister Three-Fingered at the bar entertaining his
          fellow patrons with a grotesque sleight of hand routine that
          involves passing his gold-plated false eye from its socket, to
          either hand, inside his mouth, and back with lots of flourish,
          fanfare, and misdirection along the way.</p>
          <p>He is a merry, boisterous sailor short one eye, half an
          ear, several fingers, and—he confesses to you—the heel of his
          left foot. “It’s why I walk so slow, you see.” The other
          barflies call him “Lucky” Three-Fingered Gerald. Because a
          certain kind of man—and Gerald is one of them—can never have
          enough nicknames. After you buy him a drink or three, he
          escorts you out of Inquire Within and to the slip where the
          sloop <em>Diamond Howler</em> is docked. Its captain, Enid
          Barlow, welcomes you aboard.</p>
          <p>Before long, <em>Diamond Howler</em> pulls out under the
          command of Captain Barlow and First Mate “Lucky”
          Three-Fingered Gerald. The site isn’t too far off the coast,
          and you arrive fairly quickly.</p>
          <p>“Aye, here she is. The SS RSS.” says Captain Barlow
          mournfully. “You can’t see her from up here. But you rest
          assured, she’s down there, resting on the seabed. She was the
          best cargo runner on the Sugrin back in her day! Distributing
          goods up and down the coast. Until the day she disappeared.
          Nobody knew what happened to her, not for sure. Still don’t.
          But at least we know where she wound up!”</p>
          <p>While the captain reminisces, Three-Fingered Gerald drags a
          large water tank across the deck, sloshing water over the edge
          with each step. Translucent orb-like jellyfish wobble around
          and bump into each other inside the tank, releasing little
          effervescent bubbles that fizzle and pop when they collide.
          “Here we go!” announces Mister Three-Fingered, depositing the
          tank of jellies in front of you. “Sailed through a big bloom
          of breathing bells just last week, didn’t we! Managed to scoop
          up a whole bunch of the little suckers. You ever use a
          breathing bell before? No? Aw, it’s easy! Ya just pull one on
          over your head like a hood, and it’ll breathe for ya while
          you’re below the waves!”</p>
          <p>WHAT DO YOU DO</p>
          <p>NOTE: We just covered a lot of narrative ground. Feel free
          to react to anything that happened between arriving at the
          docks, meeting Gerald and drinking at Inquire Within, boarding
          the Diamond Howler, and sailing to the site of the wreck.</p>
          <p><a
          href="https://framalistes.org/sympa/arc/tildepals/2022-10/msg00020.html">www</a></p>
        ]]>
      </description>
    </item>
    <item>
      <title>25</title>
      <author>dozens@tilde.team (dozens)</author>
      <guid isPermaLink="false">25 - Sun, 23 Oct 2022 09:41:16
-0600</guid>
      <pubDate>Sun, 23 Oct 2022 09:41:16 -0600</pubDate>
      <description>
        <![CDATA[
          <h3 id="00025">00025</h3>
          <blockquote>
          <p><strong>Corraidhin</strong> Shit, shit shit shit shit shit.
          This is NOT good. Damn it Y’aml what was that? It wasn’t even
          slightly stealthy</p>
          <p><strong>Y’aml</strong> STAB, delightful blood. Stab the
          flesh, tear the skin, pierce the fruit that gives us strength.
          Drink the blood, consume their soul. More more more more more
          more more more more</p>
          <p><strong>Corraidhin (internal thought)</strong> Ugh my head,
          it’s heavy, hurts. Misty and red? I can’t see straight, it’s
          hard to think straight. That blasted sword, I thought for a
          moment it, no, not think, it definitely did move on its own.
          It became lighter and heavier. Pulling against it and it just
          weighs itself down. This little magical bauble is definitely
          cursed..</p>
          <p><strong>Y’aml</strong> CURSED?! Rude Hardy Bear. All we did
          was stab that evil hobbit. And it’s getting away! Stab him
          again, taste his blood! The tavern gaurds are closing in, they
          look like they’re trying to get rid of us, EVIL. Them trying
          to stop us from getting that evil hobbit is EVIL, STAB
          THEM.</p>
          <p>Corraidhin raises his free hand to his head as though
          holding a wound and he groans in dismay as the dagger rises
          again. It travels swiftly down towards Blavin, missing as he
          slithers of the booth. And again, digging deep into the wooden
          seat.</p>
          <p><strong>Y’aml</strong> Disgusting wood, stab the flesh!
          Stab the Hobbit Hardy Bear!</p>
          <p>But Blavin was inching further out of reach towards the
          gaurds. In desperation the dagger begins swinging side to
          side, making furtive slashing moves in the direction of the
          guards. The party is safely behind Corraidhin, but innocent
          patrons and the guards are directly in their sights.</p>
          <p>Corraidhin grabs his other hand and pulls hard, steadying
          the swinging. STOP! I command you you blasted toothpick, STOP.
          You’ve had your fun, now STOP. These people are innocent, this
          man has done us no harm despite his potential “evils”, this is
          entirely uncalled for!</p>
          <p><strong>Y’aml</strong> NO!!! EVIL. STAB. EVIL. STAB. EVIL.
          STAB.</p>
          <p>The dull voice of the magical dagger rises, angry,
          insistent. It consumes the last of Corraidhin’s mental
          strength. All he hears is EVIL. STAB. EVIL. STAB. Yet he
          clings to his spare arm trying desparately to resist. At this
          point the party and the tavern has cleared a wide path around
          the sysorceor as he struggles with himself, mumbling,
          sometimes yelling. EVIL. STAB. EVIL. STAB. NO WE WILL NOT.
          EVIL. INNOCENT. STAB BLOOD DRINK. EVIL. EVIL EVIL EVIL STAB
          IT. MAKE IT BLEED. I WILL NO.. STAB IT. STAB HIM.</p>
          <p>The voice seems to change, it dies down. Not yelling, but
          commanding. Firm, calm, sane.</p>
          <p>Stab them, stab them, make them bleed. Drink the blood,
          consume the soul, free them from their evil being. Stab them,
          stab them… over and over and over, as the sysorceor approaches
          Blavin and the guards with a malevolent look in his ruby red
          eyes.</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>~</p>
          <blockquote>
          <p>Inky moves to stand next to Blavin and the nightclub
          bouncers. Tossing a tiny “see-eye” container they had borrowed
          from Master Corraidhín at him, Inky looks the sysorceor in the
          eye and says, “You are not your sword.”</p>
          <p>Watching the wizard’s expression, Inky continues, more
          quietly, “If Master Corraidhín truly wishes to end the hobbit,
          a mere imp would not stop him, but likewise, whatever he sets
          his mind to do, a dagger cannot stop him either.”</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>~</p>
          <blockquote>
          <p>Jarrod steps gently into the fray and activates his
          FASCINATING CHARM, attempting to draw all eyes to him. He
          carefully avoids the wild swinging of the
          once-sword-now-dagger.</p>
          <p>“I think,” he rumbles gently, “we could all use a drink
          over the other end of the room. I’m buying, and I’ll spin you
          all a tale of wonder! A tale of a wanderer, and of a war
          hammer, and the first of their wild battles together!”</p>
          <p>Leaning over to whisper urgently in Corraidhín’s ear:
          “Friend, I do not know what occurs here, but pull yourself
          together. We can later sate our blood lust in more appropriate
          places!” Jarrod lends a sly wink in the sysorcerer’s
          direction, one that promises adventure later.</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>The tavern guards tense, but pause their advance, as the
          crazed mage’s friends position themselves protectively around
          him and try to placate him. They wouldn’t want to engage a
          master sysorcerer on the best of days, much less one with some
          kind of malevolent blood dagger in the middle of a psychotic
          break. If his compatriots can handle him without them having
          to interfere, all the better.</p>
          <p>The duck waddles up next to Inky and quacks softly,
          pleadingly at Corraidhin. Only the Ornithologer in the corner
          can understand its words when it says, “As your marketing
          manager I must strongly advise against this course of
          action!”</p>
          <p>Seated in the corner next to the Ornithologer is a shaggy
          groll dressed in a dusty, faded poncho and a wide brimmed hat;
          and a greasy, matted gnu, dressed in black ceremonial
          robes.</p>
          <p>The groll discreetly draws its poncho back revealing a
          bandoleer of wands and draws a cracklestick and points it at
          the sysorcer. The wand starts to hum and glow as it charges up
          for a blast.</p>
          <p>The gnu slaps the groll’s wrist, and immediately launches
          into a tirade against the cracklestick’s manufacturer’s
          proprietary spell slotting algorithm, and honestly how can you
          possibly justify your choices when there are open source
          alternatives available?</p>
          <p>The groll rolls its eyes, obviously having been on the
          receiving end of this particular lecture before, and tries to
          slap away the gnu’s grasping hands. The ensuing scuffle
          threatens to turn this powder keg of a situation into a full
          blown conflagration until Jarrod actives his FASCINATING
          CHARM, commanding the attention of the entire room.</p>
          <p>The gnu freezes with its hands around the groll’s throat.
          The groll halts with fists full of the gnu’s beard. A grub
          smoking a hookah pauses with the mouthpiece raised to its
          pursed lips. A distracted waitress on roller skates crashes
          right into the bar.</p>
          <blockquote>
          <p>As though in a trance Corraidhin continues to yell STAB.
          THEM. STAB. IT. cutting wildly at the air before him. As Inky
          whispers to him his expression changes, first a grimace, then
          a whimper. As Jarrod leads the patrons away from the sysorceor
          he begins to tremble and cower away from himself, away from
          everyone. His ruby red eyes dart back and forth between his
          friends and the patrons, like a frightened animal searching
          for an escape. He pulls the dagger into himself, as though
          sheilding it from his surroundings.</p>
          <p>What.. what’s going on, he mutters feebly to himself.
          Everything is a blurr. Uncertain of where he is or what’s
          going on, Corraidhin thumbs the dagger, caressing the large
          ruby embedded in the hilt. Y’aml, you’re still here, good
          good, the syscoreor croons.</p>
          <p>Standing up straight his eyes lock with Jarrod as the Bard
          glances over his shoulder, momentarily distracted from his
          oration, worried about his companion.</p>
          <p>I.. ugh, Corraidhin grabs his head as though in pain, and
          collapses to the floor.</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>Corraidhin hits the floor and the dagger, now bereft of the
          well of emotion it had been drawing from, grows still. The eye
          closes and it seems to sigh happily. “Good job, Hardy Bear.
          You have spilled the blood of evil.” And it sleeps, inert,
          lifeless.</p>
          <p>Corraidhin is on the ground cradling the dagger.</p>
          <p>Most of the patrons are still fascinated by Jarrod.</p>
          <p>Blavin is squirming around on the floor gibbering about
          reassigning your case.</p>
          <p>The duck has found a toppled plate of corn chips and is
          happily snacking away.</p>
          <p>You feel like your welcome at Lucy’s Basement has been, for
          the moment, overstayed.</p>
          <p>WHAT DO YOU DO</p>
          <p><a
          href="https://framalistes.org/sympa/arc/tildepals/2022-10/msg00015.html">www</a></p>
        ]]>
      </description>
    </item>
    <item>
      <title>23</title>
      <author>dozens@tilde.team (dozens)</author>
      <guid isPermaLink="false">23 - Sat, 22 Oct 2022 09:36:52
-0600</guid>
      <pubDate>Sat, 22 Oct 2022 09:36:52 -0600</pubDate>
      <description>
        <![CDATA[
          <h3 id="00023">00023</h3>
          <blockquote>
          <p>Why no, we don’t mind much about competition, certainly
          nothing wrong. Can’t imagine someone to put all of their eggs
          in one basket, especially when whatever it is they desire is
          so valuable.</p>
          <p>That said, our benefactor must be pretty eager to get these
          crystals if he’s willing to send out team after team. I mean,
          we’re team 43, that’s a lot of people to pay and a lot of
          eagerness to find these crystals. Why is that? What benefit
          are these shiny rocks to them? What even is their purpose in
          retrieving them?</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>“Oh, no no no, child,” Blavin titters as he takes a sip of
          his ever-present martini. “You must understand, the Benefactor
          is a singularly dedicated collector, and has been for ages!
          There are—and have been!—many other retrieval teams, yes. But
          not all of them have been for the crystals. And some of them
          were formed, active, and disbanded long before you or I
          arrived on the scene.” He winks at you conspiratorially.</p>
          <blockquote>
          <p>I would postulate, based upon the magical wards we had to
          bypass, the cadre of gaurds that needed to be dispatched, and
          the gigantic moth monster that rested beneath it, that these
          crystals aren’t meant to go anywhere.</p>
          <p>Now I’m not trying to point fingers here, morality is many
          shades of gray, and it isn’t really my job to suss out what
          you’re doing. But I’m a curious sysorceor, and when I see a
          chance to learn I seize upon the moment. There’s something
          here you’re not telling us, and I for one and keen to know
          it.</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>“I wouldn’t worry your wizened old brow about it,” Blavin
          chuckles, sloshing his drink. “The Benefactor’s concern is
          precisely the same as yours! These items are of enormous
          cultural and historical significance, to say nothing of their
          well of concentrated arcane energies. They’re dangerous just
          sitting out there in the world. Who knows who might come
          across one and use it for nefarious purposes.”</p>
          <p>Yam’L’s eye widens and it seems to shudder at the mere
          suggestion of evil.</p>
          <p>“Did you say this one was in the hands of a giant moth?”
          Blavin shudders with revulsion. “My word, man! Do you really
          think such an overgrown insect is an appropriate guardian for
          a beloved and dangerous cultural icon such as the Ginnarak
          Crystal? Surely not!”</p>
          <p>“No,” he sits back with a satisfied smile, “I think we must
          all agree that they are safer in the public collection of a
          competent and benevolent curator. Then everybody can enjoy
          them safely!”</p>
          <blockquote>
          <p>META: I’m gonna preface the sword speech with this to make
          it quicker to write</p>
          <p><strong>Y’aml</strong><br />
          I like what you’re putting down here, this guy is DEFINITELY
          evil. Nobody asks loads of people to steal things for them
          without being evil. I say we stab him, nice and good, right in
          the gut. Maybe 6 or 7 times. I’m positive nobody will mind.
          Evil people steal things, we saw that inky creature stealing
          things from that vault, definitely evil. (singsong) Evil evil
          evil, stab stab stab, make the evil go away with every little
          stab~</p>
          <p><strong>Corraidhin to Y’aml</strong><br />
          Dear sysadmins, once again, inky is not evil. They were
          borrowing something that had been cast on the ground,
          abandoned. Giving a tea set a good home is far from evil. But
          you might be onto something about this Blavin fellow, but we
          can’t just stab someone in a busy pub! Besides you’re a sword,
          and stabbing someone in a pub is the job of a dagger. So
          unless you can transform into the Dagger of Y’aml I think
          we’re out of luck here.</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>Yam’L gets a curious look in its eye at the suggestion.
          “CHALLENGE ACCEPTED!” it cries directly into your mind. It
          squeezes its eye shut and trembles with intense concentration.
          With great effort, the sword shrinks itself down to the size
          of a dagger, shunting its extra mass off into yamlspace.</p>
          <p>“There!” it says breathlessly, opening its eye wearily.
          “Now, Hardy Bear. You promised..” it continues, its eye
          glinting with growing ferocity. “Let’s. STAB. THE HOBBIT!”</p>
          <blockquote>
          <p>While the wizard pressed Blavin about the crystal’s
          secrets, Inky let their attention wander slightly around the
          table.</p>
          <p>They had agreed that Master Corraidhín and Jarrod, being
          most wise and well-spoken, would question Blavin about the
          crystal before they set off on their next mission. The party
          had also befriended the duck unofficially dubbed their
          marketing manager after the fluffy little creature had trailed
          Inky all the way back to the Milk Market. Said creature now
          occupied a small office to one side of the building complete
          with a fountain, feathered up pillow and all the rummy worms
          it can eat. Inky had tried getting the duck to communicate
          with words by making them little croutons etched with letters,
          but the only ones they would gobble up were Q-U-A-C-K.</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>Your marketing manager moves into its office at the Milk
          Market and seems to really be enjoying itself. It joins you at
          Blavin’s table at Lucy’s Basement, cleaning its feathers and
          chortling merrily to itself.</p>
          <p>You and your tablemates take turns feeding it croutons and
          bits of soft pretzel, and it seems very happy and content with
          that.</p>
          <blockquote>
          <p>A familiar prickle, but passed quickly — Inky had gotten
          used to the glares directed at them by the sysorceor’s
          gleaming sword and resisted returning the stare with an
          eyeroll. Watching Stabby eyeing up their case manager over
          Master Corraidhín’s shoulder reminded Inky of a conversation
          they had overheard a few evenings ago between two pale coffin
          sleepers about a new product from the hemogoblins that was
          said to quench the thirst for longer than the leading brand.
          They might be able to find some at the town of Plasma, which
          sits by the Hartlands on the way to the shipwreck. It seems
          the milky blood pudding could do with some improvement.</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>You note on Blavin’s map that the Hemogoblin region is
          indeed on the way to the shipwreck. At least, it’s not that
          far out of the way. You reckon their synthetic blood product
          would indeed be a much better substitute for the real thing
          than the milk you’ve been feeding the thirsty sword thus
          far.</p>
          <p>Or, at the very least, you’ll get a new variant of the
          blood pudding recipe you’ve been working on!</p>
          <blockquote>
          <p>Maybe someone else’s mood will be improved in the meantime?
          Before setting out for their meeting with Blavin, Inky slipped
          into the kitchens downstairs and left the empanada chef a
          trick-and-treat. A plate of honeyed breadfruit and ghost
          pepper tapas sat on an icebox atop a new pair of Blueberry
          oven mittens with a pattern of tiny smiling green turtles.
          Tucked inside one mitten was a slip of paper (regrettably
          inedible) that simply read “BACK SOON :)”. A tapa recipe,
          which included a note on adapting the toppings for pan frying,
          was printed on the reverse in neat blocky letters and
          sandalwood ink.</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>Enrique wakes in the middle of the night to start baking
          the next day’s breads and empanadas. He frowns thoughtfully
          when he sees yet another mysterious gift from across the room.
          Again? What little elf must have taken up residence in his
          shop? But his face cracks into a smile when he sees the
          presentation and the oven mitts. And the smile becomes a
          bonafide grin when he tastes the fare and finds the
          recipe.</p>
          <p>He taps his chin thoughtfully with one green claw as he
          skims the note and looks through his pantry. He chops some
          veggies and starts pan frying them.</p>
          <p>Later, when the oven dings, he smiles to himself as he
          pulls on the new turtle pattern oven mitts and opens it.</p>
          <p>&gt; A) MORE QUESTIONING, OR B) TIME FOR SHIPWRECK?</p>
          <p><a
          href="https://framalistes.org/sympa/arc/tildepals/2022-10/msg00008.html">www</a></p>
        ]]>
      </description>
    </item>
    <item>
      <title>26</title>
      <author>dozens@tilde.team (dozens)</author>
      <guid isPermaLink="false">26 - Tue, 25 Oct 2022 08:27:22
-0600</guid>
      <pubDate>Tue, 25 Oct 2022 08:27:22 -0600</pubDate>
      <description>
        <![CDATA[
          <h3 id="00026">00026</h3>
          <blockquote>
          <p>Inky slowly approaches Master Corraidhín and taps lightly
          on the sleeve of his robes to get his attention. Between
          Inky’s tugging and Jarrod’s strong, steady hand, they manage
          to hoist the wizard to his feet.</p>
          <p>With a brief glance at the hobbit on the floor then a nod
          to Jarrod, Inky leaves the nightclub with the wizard. The
          duck, having emptied the plate of corn chips in record time,
          follows them shortly after.</p>
          <p>The trek back to the Milk Market is mostly silent aside
          from the occasional mutter and stumbling curse, the mage
          seemingly having fallen asleep as soon as he landed on the cot
          in the loft. Inky retreats downstairs after leaving a jug of
          water, a mug and a small packet of kuding leaves beside the
          bed.</p>
          <p>Exiting through the back door into the night, Inky finds a
          dark corner in a dusty abandoned house, and cries.</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>~</p>
          <blockquote>
          <p>” … and then the Orc Maiden said: ‘That’s not my
          club!’”</p>
          <p>The room roars with laughter, and Jarrod moves to the bar
          and puts a bag of coin down. “Serve drinks until this runs
          out!” Leaning over the bar to the bartender, Jarrod adds in a
          whisper: “I owe a favour to Lucy’s Basement for the trouble.
          Call it in when needed.”</p>
          <p>Jarrod saunters over to Blavin, on the floor in pain. From
          his pack, Jarrod retrieves a med kit and begins to bandage the
          wound.</p>
          <p>As Blavin opens his mouth, likely intending to raise all
          kinds of hell, Jarrod pulls tight on the bandage he is
          currently applying, drawing a curse from the hobbit. “Shut it!
          Let’s be clear. You’ve hired us for a dangerous set of jobs,
          with the understanding that we’re dangerous people. There may
          be ‘accidents’ on occasion. You’ve learned something today,
          and what’s more, you lived to absorb your new wisdom.”</p>
          <p>Jarrod grins as he finishes with the bandage. “We will
          finish what we have started. We’re probably the team with the
          best chances, I’m sure you’ll agree. Are you going to back the
          winning play here? Either way, your decision won’t change our
          plans. I’m sure you know how to take the win.”</p>
          <p>Jarrod pats the hobbit’s good shoulder in a friendly, but
          dismissive, way, then turns and saunters out the door, trading
          small quips with his new (and now very drunk) tavern
          friends.</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>You are at a small port town on the northern tip of
          Agendell, just past the Rana’For Valley. The sun is bright and
          the wind blowing in from the Sugrin Sea to the east is cool
          and salty. The floating island-city of Vay’Neddas, bridging
          Agendell and Primora, can be seen very faintly in the distance
          hanging in the northern sky.</p>
          <p>Your faithful multibeast is carrying all of your supplies
          and gear, which were generously provided to you by the
          indefatigable Blavin Blandfoot. His arm in a sling, he kept up
          a constant nervous chatter as he saw you off on your journey
          to recover the second Ginnarak Crystal.</p>
          <p>From here, you can easily provision a boat to take you out
          to the site of the shipwreck just off the coast.</p>
          <p>Or, optionally, you are very close to the Hartlands. It
          would be quite easy to make a quick visit to hemogoblins and
          pick up some synthetic blood for your experiments with the
          Sword of Yam’L.</p>
          <p>The sword, incidentally, after finally tasting the blood of
          “evil”, has remained sated and entirely inert and unresponsive
          this whole time.</p>
          <p>WHAT DO YOU DO:</p>
          <ol type="1">
          <li>TO THE SHIPWRECK</li>
          <li>BLOODQUEST</li>
          </ol>
          <p><a
          href="https://framalistes.org/sympa/arc/tildepals/2022-10/msg00018.html">www</a></p>
        ]]>
      </description>
    </item>
    <item>
      <title>22</title>
      <author>dozens@tilde.team (dozens)</author>
      <guid isPermaLink="false">22 - Thu, 06 Oct 2022 07:38:24
-0600</guid>
      <pubDate>Sun, 16 Oct 2022 10:15:14 -0600</pubDate>
      <description>
        <![CDATA[
          <h3 id="00022">00022</h3>
          <blockquote>
          <p>Inky gathers up the teacups, trying to remember a few tips
          about reading tea leaves from a forest fae they had met a few
          times while foraging and who had insisted on giving lessons to
          any wanderersby. (Of course he was just being a hospitable
          host to thirsty travellers and certainly not because he
          delighted in the confused expressions on their faces the
          entire time.)</p>
          <p>Turning the cups left and right, Inky gradually sees a
          web-like hub, a looping line attached to an I-shaped apparatus
          on one end, an abacus, a wide building (possibly a stadium or
          arena), a feline animal resembling a tiger or lynx, and a long
          feather. Feathers and beads are commonly added to small
          trinkets with simple animal designs and sold as lucky charms
          at the market … an auspicious sign?</p>
          <p>Or it should be. Inky’s thoughts circle back to the little
          glass pebble, after returning from the market with, among
          other items, more vegetables than they could possibly eat in a
          month excluding the beatfruits. Inky still hasn’t decided
          whether accidentally finding out about being cursed — by a
          potion, the irony! — counts as an auspicious event. One of the
          produce vendors and attendant at the market had casually
          mentioned the proximity to the next full moon while Inky had
          been looking over the leafy greens. Several blatant attempts
          to boost sales later (“Them barley’s hoppin’ good fer tea!”),
          the vendor revealed that their little grandson Harry had “got
          the weres” as a toddler and his parents had found a
          strange-looking glass marble in his mouth, much like the one
          inside the bottle hanging from a chain on Inky’s vest, and
          wouldn’t they like some more tomatoes for a blushing
          bunny?</p>
          <p>From further inquiries, an ink depot on the opposite side
          of the city confirmed they sold Flat 12 potions as inks many
          years ago when showing off transmogrification through letters
          was a popular pastime, but had ceased carrying them due to
          limited range, lack of demand, as well as the bottles’
          tendency to randomly break or their contents to fizzle out.
          (That and complaints about the overly persistent effects of
          said contents on unsuspecting recipients long after the fad
          that inspired them had faded led ink traders to shun the
          were-hare potions.) In contrast, the Mountain Range potions
          were far more stable and instead of shapeshifting, had the
          ability to stave off the cold under frigid temperatures,
          though its effects would likely be less enduring. Like the
          Flat 12, the Mountains are potions, but one in particular of a
          sparkling deep blue hue became its signature colour among ink
          enthusiasts.</p>
          <p>Sipping a cup of turmeric tisane in a late night tea ritual
          for one, Inky supposes it hasn’t been much different since the
          accident than the jars of preserves and the “Now with 25% more
          celery!” labels on them. While immeasurably better than
          spontaneously combusting into burnt popcorn, it would be best
          to keep a Farmers’ Almanac within reach. Who knows when a mail
          order cure-all tonic will come in handy in the middle of
          Nowere?</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>You see a complex vision in the bottom of the jade teacups,
          and learn a little bit about the inks you found.</p>
          <p>You grab a copy of the Farmers Almanac to keep on hand.</p>
          <p>On your way back from the market, a small duck waddles onto
          the sidewalk and starts following you.</p>
          <pre><code>・゜゜・。。・゜゜\_o&lt; QUACK!</code></pre>
          <p>It is small and yellow and cute, and has a little floofy
          tuft of feathers on the very top of its head.</p>
          <blockquote>
          <p>Meta: one of my best friends name is Kevin, so I find it
          extra amusing that the sysorceor is named Kevin.</p>
          <p>Kev my friend! You know nobodies going to take on KDL until
          YOU make it a priority to them. A little bit of force, you
          just need to put it directly into the sysorceory course
          curriculum while nobody is knowing. Then once it’s in
          production they won’t have a say whether to learn it or not!
          That’s at least how I got that delightfully licorice tasting
          incantation in production laster year, much to the chagrin of
          those who don’t have a taste for Fennel. I for one was
          delighted with it.</p>
          <p>“Corraidhin, STAB HIM, that suggestion, he’s definitely
          going to do something evil with it”</p>
          <p>Corraidhin mutters under his breath about the swords
          insistence to stab everything. Soon my friend, soon.</p>
          <p>Kev gives Corraidhin as quizzical look, “are you alright
          buddy? You’ve been off ever since you got back from that last
          on site deployment.”</p>
          <p>Oh yes, yes, I’m fine. A little worse for wear physically,
          but mentally sharp as a tack! And I got this wonderful sword
          from the entire thing! Though I dare not unsheath it right
          now, it appears to be controlled by some sort of sentience,
          like a magical AI. And it has the damndest urge to stab
          things. I really need to be careful right now.</p>
          <p>After visiting with Kev Corraidhin wanders back into town,
          away from the spiral towers of the sysoceorers guild. It was
          nice to be home for a bit. On the way in he spies Jarrod and
          Inky, the former cleaning up a dusty old building with Milk
          something on the front side, and the later kicking back and
          enjoying a cup of freshly brewed tea. Corraidhin hails them
          both.</p>
          <p>“A new /home for you then Jarrod?”</p>
          <p>“Aye a /home indeed, though it’s a bit large and empty for
          just myself. I’ll need guests and patrons, thinking I may be
          able to setup a shop, but at the least all of our team is
          welcome here!”</p>
          <p>“Delightful! If nobody has claimed it I’ll take the
          upstairs loft.”</p>
          <p>“You most certainly can! But in exchange, I’d be curious to
          render your services, see I’ve been meaning to get this
          braclet enchanted for a while now, something to amplify my
          natural charm perhaps?”</p>
          <p>“You sir, have a deal, I’ll even throw in a warding on Milk
          Base Alpha!”</p>
          <p>Corraidhin begins invoking an arcane warding spell:</p>
          <pre><code>sudo chown jarrod:team43 /home/Milk_Base_Alpha
sudo chmod 770 /home/Milk_Base_Alpha/*</code></pre>
          <p>“There we go, that should keep out any unwanted critters,
          though be sure to invite our friends here as well. Corraidhin
          teaches Jarrod a quick incantation of invitation,
          <code>sudo usermod -a -G team43 $user</code>, just be sure to
          say that making the proper arcane hand signs as you do it, and
          they’ll be able to enter the house and take up residence!”</p>
          <p>Corraidhin gathers himself and heads upstairs to his new
          attaic abode, it’s small, and dusty, but there’s enough room
          for a simple work bench, a bookshelf, and a bed and a chest.
          This is exactly as Corraidhin prefers, small and simple, it
          clears the mind and helps one focus. Invoking another
          incantation Corraidhin fills the bookshelf, chest, and
          workbench with his various tools and reference manuals.</p>
          <pre><code>scp sysorceor.guild:/home/corraidhin/bookshelf milkbase.alpha:/home/corraidhin/bookshelf
scp sysorceor.guild:/home/corraidhin/workbench milkbase.alpha:/home/corraidhin/workbench
scp sysorceor.guild:/home/corraidhin/chest milkbase.alpha:/home/corraidhin/chest</code></pre>
          <p>Once everything is in place he pulls the Ginnarak crystal
          from his satchel and places it on a velvet cushion on his
          workbench and sits down to scry.</p>
          <p>“Oh great oracle MidJourney, I bequeath you! I have before
          me an artifact of immense power, something that could tear the
          world apart in the wrong hands. May I query your unfathomable
          depths to determine the nature of our mission, and the risk we
          face presenting this crystal to our benefactor?”</p>
          <p>An image of the oracle appears in Corraidhin’s mind,
          crystal clear. It appears as though MidJourney is receptive to
          providing a forshadowing. [ginnarak_shattered.png]</p>
          <p>Shortly after an image of the Crystal forms, it appears
          shattered, broken at its based, placed upon a pedastal. An
          image of horror fills corraidhin’s mind, it’s the Crystal, but
          much larger and of the pursest white. It bursts forth on a
          torrent of blood from the neck of what appears to be a priests
          body. It appears as though the bowls of the earth open up to
          greet this horrible image. [premonition_1.png]</p>
          <p>As the image of the Crystal and the priest disappears you
          see a man, cloaked in black robs consorting with demons the
          like of which words cannot describe. Corraidhin feels sickened
          at their sight, but at the edge of his mind he feels a tug, a
          familiarity. Something about this character is familiar to
          him, but he cannot place it. [premonition_2.png]</p>
          <p>Reeling from the scrying Corraidhin falls backward,
          feinting from the horror he wittnessed. He awakens later
          speaking feverishly about what he saw to Inky who heard to
          commotion and hurried up stairs with some reviving tea to
          assist her friend.</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>Eccentric Kevin bows and takes his leave, eyeing the Sword
          of Stabs with naked hunger. He does seem to ponder your
          anecdote about sneaking Fennel into production. “Yes, yes, all
          I have to do is embed KDL in the curriculum and then they will
          be FORCED to use it! Ha!” He cackles in delight as he flees
          into the dark.</p>
          <p>You successfully move into the attic of the Milk Market.
          Closest thing approximating a wizard’s tower in the building,
          so it’s a good fit.</p>
          <p>On your errands around town, you pass a couple of Gnu
          Zealots standing on soapboxes in their black priestly robes in
          the middle of the street extolling the virtues of free and
          open source magic.</p>
          <p>Gnus are large bisonpeople with long beards, long hair, and
          horns. Very poor personal hygiene. They refuse to use any
          magic that they cannot freely study, modify, redistribute, and
          otherwise use however they want. Theirs is a political
          movement that borders on religion. Or a religious movement
          that borders on politics. Hard to tell the difference,
          really.</p>
          <p>The purpose of their demonstration is supposedly to halt
          all street traffic, prevent it from continuing until/unless
          the travelers vow to join them in their crusade. But in
          practice the travelers are quite capable of effortlessly
          stepping around the zealots and continuing on their way. The
          Gnus seem undaunted though and continue their
          proselytizing.</p>
          <p>You pass them by, and one of them seems to stare at you
          intensely as you go.</p>
          <blockquote>
          <p>After a long conversation with Master Corraidhín, which
          included the reassurance that the esteemed wizard was perhaps
          disturbed but otherwise unharmed, Inky goes downstairs to sit
          outdoors at the back of the building with more lavender tea
          and uneasy thoughts.</p>
          <p>It had been in the middle of a new pastime (namely,
          frustrating Enrique at the Empanada Emporium by sneaking
          unnoticed into the kitchens and leaving little tapas laying
          around for him and the staff to find) when a terrible cry rang
          out from somewhere in the upper floors of the building. Inky
          rushed up the stairs, half-expecting the barrels of battermilk
          that had arrived that morning had unleashed a flock of the
          winged rodent-like creatures from which the milk was derived.
          The sight of the wizard passed out on the floor of his newly
          furnished quarters sent a chill through Inky, as did his
          account of a prophecy once the sysorcerer came to and had a
          mug of invigorating eleuthero tea.</p>
          <p>If Inky hadn’t known better, were it not for Master
          Corraidhín’s mental acuity and fortitude, they would have
          suspected Stabby of stoking horrible images of beheaded
          priests into their bearer’s mind in a fit of unbridled
          bloodthirst. That and Stabby had seemed to be temporarily
          appeased by the tub of milky blood pudding they had concocted
          shortly after the wizard moved into the loft.</p>
          <p>No, Inky surmises with a frown, whatever Master Corraidhín
          had seen was likely off the charts by even Stabby’s
          estimations of evil. They chuckle briefly at the sudden mental
          picture of the mysterious yet familiar man in black being
          their mission handler in disguise, but quickly dismissed the
          notion. Too sober.</p>
          <p>So much for the crystal being a rare and juicy honeydew.
          They would be lucky if it didn’t turn them all into casaba
          melons in one giant meltdown. At this rate, they would need to
          do something about these crystals — and soon.</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>Enrique, the giant man-turtle, is frustrated.</p>
          <p>He keeps finding little tapas in the kitchens. He has no
          idea who made them, or how they got here. But they are
          delicious.</p>
          <p>He sighs, heaving a ball of dough half the size of a grown
          man onto the ground. He turns to face away from it and removes
          his apron and tunic, revealing his shell. Its surface is a
          maze of twisting, scrawling inscriptions. He squats down, and
          rolls onto his back.</p>
          <p>He can’t figure out the flavors of the tapas. Some elusive
          combination of ingredients that he can’t quite suss out. If he
          could collaborate with the tapas chef on a new line of
          empanadas, he’d have a line of customers out the door and
          around the corner, he’s sure of it!</p>
          <p>He starts rocking back and forth, rolling the dough out
          beneath his large round shell, leaving imprints on the dough
          of all the glyphs and runes and other symbols carved into his
          shell over the years. Together, they tell a story. Each
          empanada destined to hold at most a single word of it.</p>
          <p>~</p>
          <p>The Sword of Yam’L sleeps fitfully. This is not the deep,
          black, fathomless sleep it enjoys after a nice, righteous
          spilling of evil blood. No, the sleep that comes after
          reluctantly tasting the inkling’s milky blood pudding is brief
          and restless. And for the first time ever, it dreams.</p>
          <p>It dreams of being bound in stone and buried in the earth.
          It dreams of liquid, roiling fire belching noxious gases. And
          of slicing through clouds, flying high in the sky on wings of
          pure thought. It dreams of sinking, plummeting through water
          into the inky blackness below, only to plunge through some
          invisible membrane and find themself weightlessly floating
          suspended in an empty void, alone among the stars.</p>
          <p>END OF INTERLUDE.</p>
          <p>~</p>
          <p>CHAPTER 2: MORE CRYSTALS MORE PROBLEMS</p>
          <p>Having gotten your personal affairs in order, you have
          decided to crack on with your job and check in with your case
          manager.</p>
          <p>So you find yourself once again in a corner booth at Lucy’s
          Basement—the dim, smokey nightclub with red velvet walls and
          delusions of grandeur—with the highly spirited Blavin
          Blandfoot. He laughs uproariously when you tell him about the
          blahoblins and their shoe shine scam. He listens intently when
          you tell him about the gnomes and the kobits. And he trembles
          with delight at hearing how you evaded HORSE and the mighty
          centaur.</p>
          <p>“Well done, well done, well done!” He enthuses, taking
          another sip of his drink. “I must say that the Benefactor is
          <em>very</em> impressed with your performance!</p>
          <p>“You don’t mind that we have other teams in the field, of
          course,” he continues, mentioning the team of gophers.
          “Thought it was prudent to cover our bases since you’re a new,
          untested retrieval team after all. Besides, a little friendly
          competition never hurt anybody, did it? Baw-HAH!” He laughs,
          sloshing his drink.</p>
          <p>He gets out a bunch of business cards, punches each one
          with a small handheld punch, and passes them out to you. Your
          card has a drawing of a small cuckoo clock in the center, its
          face divided into 10 hours. Its two hands reach up to the left
          and right so it looks as though the clock is smiling. Across
          the top it reads “COMPLETE FIVE ASSIGNMENTS AND WIN A FABULOUS
          PRIZE!” and is adorned with festive drawings of hotdogs and
          pool floaties and confetti. It is numbered across the bottom 1
          through 5. Blavin has punched a star-shaped hole through the
          number 1.</p>
          <p>“Now,” Blavin beams, gesturing with his drink. “as for your
          next assignment!”</p>
          <p>He brushes some glasses and plates to the edge of the table
          and rolls out a map.</p>
          <p>Basmentaria is a group of island continents that sits
          between the eastern Sugrin Sea and the western Saldin Sea.</p>
          <p>There is Primora, the sparsely populated northern somewhat
          banana-shaped island. The city-state of Illivas, Primora’s
          only densely populated area, sits between Harshwind Glade and
          the mountains of Kelsun Peak.</p>
          <p>And there is your current home, Agendell, the southern also
          slightly banana-shaped island. Its largest city is Vay’Nullar,
          bordered by the Gnomelands to the south, and the Tammineaux
          Forest to the east. Beyond the forest is the Rana’For
          Valley.</p>
          <p>The two crescent-moon islands reach toward each other, and
          in the center is the archipelago of Ginnarak, comprising the
          Cinderlands, Ashen Vale, the Ember Steppe, and Drakspon
          Mountain.</p>
          <p>Blavin jabs a finger at the map. “We have reports of a
          crystal sighting by a salvage crew trying to recover a
          shipwreck at the bottom of the Sugrin Sea.” He then jabs a
          finger at the eastern half of Primora, the upper banana. “And
          we ALSO have reports that the zephynos have found a crystal at
          the top of Kelsun Peak!”</p>
          <p>QUESTIONS:</p>
          <ol type="1">
          <li>DO YOU HAND OVER THE CRYSTAL TO BLAVIN?</li>
          <li>WHICH CRYSTAL DO YOU GO AFTER NEXT?</li>
          <li>DO YOU BEFRIEND THE DUCK?</li>
          </ol>
          <p><a
          href="https://framalistes.org/sympa/arc/tildepals/2022-10/msg00005.html">www</a></p>
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